


only honest when it –

by silverhedges



Series: kamski is the real antagonist of DBH (i want to love you but i don't know how) [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Kidnapping, lots of gavin + hank annoying each other tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 23:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15695223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverhedges/pseuds/silverhedges
Summary: Connor disappears. Conán replaces him.Hank doesn’t take this well.[Involving: team-ups with Gavin and Jericho, the truth behind Amanda and Kamski, and too many feelings over dead kids.]





	only honest when it –

**Author's Note:**

> TW: alcoholism, suicidal ideation, kids dead too soon, swearing (it's Hank, my friends)
> 
> for those just clicking in - this is part of a series with quite a few changes from canon! so i suggest reading the first two as so to not be confused

The moment Hank wakes up, he knows something is wrong.

Blame it on the parental sixth-sense of knowing your kid ain’t in the house, blame it on the fact that it’s 8.30am and Connor hasn’t woken him up. It matters shit. The point is, Connor is gone.

Hank rolls himself up out of bed, drags on what passes for a uniform. Ever since that nuisance showed up, he’d been making Hank get his shit together. Like getting to work on time, which means waking up at 7.30am. Hank isn’t a police officer for nothing: he can add two and two and end up with the bad feeling in his gut.

He spends a few useless minutes doing a sweep of the house. Fucking time wasted. The house is just as he left it, as if Connor had never been here at all. Connor always made it clear he was no housekeeping android, and Hank is no cleaner either. Damn that Connor’d never been big on personal items; damn it all to hell that it had been eight months since Connor moved in and was still sleeping on the fucking sofa.

Hank stares at the empty sofa and curses it for being something else to be guilty over.

Sumo pads up to him, tail wagging. His head is tilted, like he’s asking: _where’s Connor?_

Precious time is spent doing all the normal duties of life he can’t escape. Pours dog food into the bowl, refills the water bowl. Gulps down a quick latte. It’s horrendously domestic and terrifying at the same time: he should be finding Connor, _now,_ the urgent warning in the back of his head is saying, the part that has kept Hank alive all these years, the part that makes him a police officer.

“I’ll be back with our boy,” Hank mutters to Sumo, pats his head.

Grabs his keys and jumps in the car.

Fuck, it ain’t like Hank hadn’t done this before. The first drive home from the hospital, knowing his kid was dead, was just like this. The world goes on as normal and you’re screaming inside, because it’s all wrong, all messed up: _he’s not here, he’s not here_ , like a blare under his skin. He’s muttering under his breath: God, just let him be at the station, God, just let him come back home with a reasonable explanation for disappearing without notice when that is completely fucking against everything Hank understands about Connor. God, just let him be alive.

Hank is a police officer. When people disappear from their homes in the middle of the night with no explanation, he knows how it usually ends up.

.

He rolls into the station at 9.45am. Ticks off an autopilot list in his head: slam down your ID to get in, storm past all the desks, straight up into Fowler’s office. Ignore everything else.

Fowler barely gives him a glance, the bastard. “Late today. Back to bad habits?”

Hank leans down on the desk. “Jeffrey, you seen Connor?”

Maybe it’s the first-name use or urgency tight in his voice, but Fowler fixes with a piercing look, frowning. “Of course I haven’t. Where’s your shadow?”

Hank leans back, thinking through other options. “Gone.”

“Suppose he has his own life to live.” Fowler clasps his hands on his desk. He has that look on his face. Hank knows it intimately. It’s the look of ‘something bad has probably happened to your kid and you know it and I know it and it will be a long while before anyone admits this’.

Hank steps away. “Yeah, yeah, I guess so.”

He takes shaky steps down. Slumps into his own seat. His head is pounding, just like it always does: from the alcohol last night, from the way he kept up until 3am, from the caffeine-only breakfast. From fear. He needs to think logically, break through this, but the fear is paralysing him. His mouth is dry.

Connor isn’t here.

(God, he should just fucking kill himself right now, before he finds out what bad end his kid has come to.)

Hank takes the flask out of his jacket, because he is a weak and useless old man, and drinks deep. The brandy burns his throat on the way down. His shoulders relax, mind clearing.

“Oh?” drawls a familiar, obnoxious voice. Reed, the little shit, is leaning against Connor’s desk, poking at the tiny stuffed dog Chen gave Connor for his three-month detective anniversary. “Connor’s been promoted to solo fieldwork already? Hah. He’s leaving you in the dust, old man.”

Hank just shakes his head.

“Wait, he’s _not_?” Reed spreads out his hands, looking around with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. “Is this the part where he jumps out and _scares_ me?”

“I don’t know where he is,” mutters Hank.

That gets him a pause. When Hank glances up, Reed is staring, a peculiar expression crossing his face. “Don’t you live with him?”

“Yeah.”

“What, did he disappear during the night?” Reed laughs, a little strained. “Into thin air?”

Pause. “Yeah.”

Hank doesn’t have to admit anything to this little upstart. Reed’s been trying to ruin him since he day he swaggered into the department. Hank is long, long past giving a shit about ‘careers’ or ‘CV’ or fucking accomplishments. The way he treats Connor annoys the fuck out of Hank as well, although he’d be fucked if he knows exactly what the two of them think about each other.

“Maybe he’s found better people to spend his time with.” Reed crosses his arms, voice lowering. “You should be worried, Anderson. If I were you, I’d be chasing him down to kick his ass.”

See. Look at that, right there: his tone sounds like an ass, but his words are trying to manipulate Hank into worrying more about Connor. Reed is a hundred years too young to be manipulating Hank. He sees through those petty office games.

“Just fuck off, Reed.” Hank stands up, kicking back his chair. “If Fowler asks, I’m at the ARA.”

Reed’s voice echoes behind him as he stomps out of the office. “Oh, Connor’s probably just ran off to be with the robot messiah! Fantastic! What a pity he’ll have to settle for us mere mortals here –“ Hank stops listening as soon as he can.

.

It’s only been a month since the Detroit Agreement was released; Hank is unsurprised to see armed androids guarding the door to the ARA. Markus’ gang has been provided with a spacey office building downtown. The DPD is split on whether the ARA is legitimate or if they’re just terrorists in suits. Hank is fundamentally selfish, as he is in every area of his life – Connor is friends with Markus, which makes Markus alright in his book.

Even if he’s an ex-terrorist turning android politician.

Either way, the guns pointing at him as he’s escorted to Markus’ office are met with a scowl.

Markus is completing paperwork at his desk. For some reason he does it old-style in ink and paper: kudos from Hank, but God, why? “You can’t just walk in here with no warning, flashing your police badge.” Markus’ voice is cheery as it can be. “You’ll scare the desk staff.”

Hank cuts straight to the point. “Where’s Connor?”

He has a vague hope that Connor’s here, filling in the paperwork that will legally declare him a deviant and not CyberLife’s property. Sure Connor thinks he’s fooling them all, but really, he’s fooling no one. Hank is a little uncomfortable that technically Connor still belongs to that fucking company.

“He’s not with you?” Markus looks up and around. “He’s not with you.” There is a short pause. Markus has a piercing stare. “You don’t know where he is.”

Hank has to take a moment to swallow before his ingrained police protocol kicks in. “He’s not here? He didn’t come running to you during the night?”

Markus rises from the chair, a slight frown gracing his face. He’s truly one of those larger-than-life people, who will die historic – Hank is always unnerved at how quick the kid is to catch on. “No, no, I’ve heard nothing. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I _am_ a cop, I’m trained for this. This just isn’t like Connor. If he was going anywhere, he woulda said.”

“Unless it’s somewhere he doesn’t want you to know about.”

The infamous second-in-command of the android terrorists melts out of the shadows. North scares the shit out of him.

Hank glares at her. “Kid tells me everything. Never leaves my side. Last time he went somewhere without me, think it was infiltrating _Jericho_.”

Markus and North exchange significant glances. Hank knows that look. Clearly someone hasn’t been telling the missus everything. Trust Hank, he’s divorced, he knows how easy it is to fuck up with women.

“I’ll put the word out to see if anyone’s seen him around here, or Jericho,” replies Markus, stare intense. “When you find him, please let me know.”

“He’s a grown man,” North scoffs. “He doesn’t need any _human_ keeping tabs on him 24/7.”

“Other way round, sweetheart. It’s him keeping tabs on me.”

Hank turns on his heel and walks out of the room. Connor isn’t there. No point lingering around for small talk.

.

Back at the station, Reed is hovering around the door with a cup of coffee in his hand. Hank glares at him reflexively. That brat is the second last person he wants to see right now. (The last being, of course, Gen, who can just make him feel twice as guilty for losing another kid.)

Reed peers around him, looking into blank space. “Oh, has the Bambi boy actually left us for robot Jesus?”

“Wasn’t there,” mutters Hank and shoves past him.

“How long has it been since you last saw him?” Chris calls out as he passes.

Police training drilled into everyone here. They all have the same bad feeling.

“11pm last night,” Hank grunts as he sits down, seat creaking. Pause. “7pm last time I saw him sober.”

With that, he unscrews the flask and gulps a mouthful, because fuck it.

“Maybe we should test you for sleeping drugs,” Chen hypothesises.

Reed, returning to his desk, snorts. His voice is tense. “Oh, everyone knows he’s permanently drunk.”

Hank stares at the terminal, screen blurring into a bright smear. Out of options. Connor isn’t at home, he isn’t at the station, he isn’t with Markus. Where the hell else could he be? His training is on overdrive, instinct screaming that time is ticking down. He’s caught between running out of time and being forced to wait.

It’s true that Connor is a man in his late twenties, a stone-cold killer with a gun and can take care of himself. At the same time, Connor essentially didn’t have a life before the kid woke up and was sent to go work with Hank. Yeah, Hank’s become a tad overprotective. He doesn’t give a shit. Connor has plenty of enemies and this behaviour doesn’t match the track record.

What should he do?

Wait until the kid shows up? Go out and search for an empty metal body?

Hank buries his face in his hands, fingers dragging through his rough grey hair. Fuck, he’s such a useless old man. The chorine smell of the hospital is still rank in his throat, memory choking him. The nurses passing him by, not even trying to be sympathetic, saying _sir, sir, you should go home_. Go home? When his kid is being operated on by a fuckin’ machine?

Hank had done nothing at all. He didn’t have the know-how to save his kid’s life. He couldn’t possibly leave the hospital and go home. So he’d done fuck-all and just sat there, in the stiff horrible hospital chair, choking on the bleach in the air.

Before he knows it, it’s time to go home. He’d intended to do some work, but instead he’s just sat there all afternoon, paralysed by the memories of his past mistakes.

“Lot can happen in 18 hours.” Fowler has come down from his office, watching Hank pack up. “Stay safe.”

Hank doesn’t respond. Just picks up his keys and walks out, head full of static.

“Hey, Anderson!” calls out that irritating voice behind him. Hank walks faster.

“Anderson, I’m talking to you, you bastard!”

Hank glares over his shoulder at Reed.

The cocky little shit is following him, blathering on, “Looks like every bus I get home has been cancelled because of roadworks, eugh. I think it’d be a great idea if you gave me a lift home.”

“If he’s at home, I’ll let you know,” mutters Hank, so sick of Reed’s bullshit.

Reed stops, crossing his arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Right. I’ll get a lift off Chris instead, since you’re _so_ helpful.”

“Sure, kid.”

Whatever helps Reed sleep at night.

.

When he gets back to the bungalow, Hank parks. Goes in and drops his car keys down, scratches Sumo behind the ears, pours fresh water and dog food. Sumo wags his tail. It’s nice to feel that he’s needed somewhere, even if it’s just a dog that relies on Hank to feed and walk him. That’s the motivation that drags Hank out of the bed in the morning: if he died in his sleep, who would take care of Sumo?

If he died, who would be making sure Connor’s safe?

He wastes a few minutes just staring at the empty sofa.

Walks into his bedroom and flicks through the section of the wardrobe dedicated to the clothes Hank had convinced Connor to buy: white long-sleeved shirts, black suit trousers, the ‘infiltration outfit’. Connor’s fashion sense needs some work. They were working on it.

The bungalow is searched, every inch of it and Hank finds absolutely nothing to show for it.

Hank clicks his tongue. “Come on, Sumo. Going for a walk.”

The air is good for him and the dog. They search the area around the bungalow. They walk down all the nearest streets, comb the deserted corners. Hell, he stops at walking into the nearest crowd or playground and screaming “CONNOR!” over and over again at the stop of his lungs, but it’s close.

Nothing. No signs at all. Hank is fucking trained for this, thirty years of experience and there are no clues.

If Hank comes home from his dog walk with a ten-pack of beer, no one is at home to call out his behaviour.

If Hank drinks them all and then more, then no one is there to stop him.

If Hank sits with his gun on the kitchen table, willing himself to have the guts to cross that line, then well, he wouldn’t be around to see the consequences.

.

_Brrrring. Brrrring. Brrrring._

Hank grasps at the phone, presses the answer button, lifts it to his ear. “Right. Right. Who is it.”

It is excruciatingly hard. His head is swimming, a world of pain.

Unfamiliar voice. “Mr Anderson, this is Simon from the ARA. We have a situation here. An android who knows where Connor is has shown up.”

Just like that: cold water.

Connor.

“What?”

“He’s hostile.”

“I’ll be there,” Hank says roughly and slams end call.

Curses the domestics of life: pulls his clothes on as quickly as possible, pours dog food, pours water. Skips the coffee. Grabs keys, out into the car, driving as quickly as possible.

Connor’s out there somewhere. Maybe he needs Hank, maybe he doesn’t. But God, Hank needs him.

.

The ARA is in chaos. The early morning light is too sharp, his stomach is saying he’s going to throw up, the world is blurry at the edges. None of that matters. Hank pushes his way through the crowd of androids, gun already out. They’re milling around a focal point.

He forces his way through, and then he sees him, from the back –

For a moment, he thinks –

There is the same slicked back hair, same broad shoulders, same tilt of head.

(He should have known better. For years afterwards, every little boy with brown hair turned his head. Every woman with the same chestnut, brown-gold hair glittering in the light. He used to scan crowds, looking for his loved ones he knew wouldn’t be there.)

Then the man turns.

Hank’s head is white noise – can’t tell what he’s saying – his police training ingrained.

The man looks just like Connor, like a perfect copy.

Except the lock of hair has been smoothed back, except that he’s taller, except that his eyes are a mocking grey-blue. The jacket is different: it reads RK900.

This thing looks just like his son, but this imitation isn’t Connor.

Hank raises his gun, bellows, “Where’s Connor!?”

That provokes a reaction: the thing turns to look at him, androids parting in front of him to let Hank force his way through, closer. Hank advances, gun trained on the imitation.

“Where is Connor,” he repeats.

The thing just stares at him with those freaky grey-blue eyes, tilts his head in the exact same way Connor does. Its LED is spinning blue. Then it smiles, a sharp, mocking curve of the mouth. It’s so unlike Connor that his stomach turns in disgust.

“I see. You must be Hank Anderson. An alcoholic old man who, instead of working his job, is waving a gun around in the foyer of the Android Rights Association.” It spreads its hands out, unarmed. The deep voice is Connor’s, but the sarcasm is all wrong. “Congratulations, Lieutenant.”

“Cut the bullshit. You’re not Connor. I want him back.”

“I’d like to know what you’re doing here.”

Hank flicks his gaze for a moment. North is advancing on the other side, gun drawn and aimed at the Connor-imposter. Her mouth is a snarl. Markus is safely behind her. Times like these are where Hank suddenly remembers he’s a human in Android Terrorism HQ.

If he wasn’t as fucked in the head as he is, he might have been scared.

As it is, he keeps the gun drawn.

The imitation rolls his eyes, an expression just looks so wrong using Connor’s face. “I see I was mistaken in believing that pointing guns at someone just for existing is a thing of the past.”

The crowd is shifting back. Markus is clearer now: he’s holding a gun, pointed down. “Direct order,” calls Markus, his voice clear and strong. “Tell us who you are and what your relation is to Connor.”

The imposter sighs. “Isn’t it polite to ask my name first?”

Markus frowns. “You don’t answer direct orders.”

“I was infected with deviancy shortly after my birth. My mother says it’s given me a sarcastic streak.”

Hank stops dead. He looks just like Connor, but he’s a deviant? This is unprecedented. Hank ain’t some deviant expert or whatever, but when Markus gave up the fight, he stopped converting androids by the touch of his little finger. A deviant by conversion, who isn’t part of Jericho? The fuck?

Maybe a deviant who is genuinely loyal to CyberLife.

Markus asks, “What’s your name?”

“Finally! My name is Conán. Model RK900. You can think of me as Connor’s angry little brother.” Conán holds up a hand, smirking. “Now, before you actually shoot me, I do know where Connor is.”

 _Conán._ Hank keeps the gun still. “Where?”

“Obsolete.”

Markus, soft, utters, “What?”

“The RK800 model is a thing of the past. I’m his replacement.” Conán looks directly at Hank with his eerie mocking eyes. “Connor never did declare himself a deviant, as you know.”

“What do you mean.”

Conán scoffs. “Do I have to spell it out for you or is everyone just this slow?” It looks at Markus. “Connor _failed_ in his investigation of deviancy. Part of the Detroit Agreement is that CyberLife would begin a new, non-fatal investigation into the differences between deviant and non-deviant androids.” Conán jabs a thumb at himself. “Which is _moi_.”

North’s voice is tinged with anger. “CyberLife still thinks Connor belongs to them?”

Conán tilts his head. Hank’s heart aches. God, he wants his brat back.

“When he was called in the night before last, he came willingly. Because legally, yes, Connor is still the property of CyberLife. He seemed to agree with that.”

Hank asks, low and dangerous, “Why the past tense?”

Moment of silence.

“Where is Connor right now?”

“In CyberLife,” Conán replies.

“Is he still alive?” Markus’ voice is a demand.

Conán shoots back, “Connor never declared himself to be alive.”

Hank cocks the gun, aiming, “You fucking heartless –“

A hand on his arm: the third-in-command Simon, expression wordlessly telling him not to shoot. Hank stares, anger roiling. But: shooting a gun in Android Terrorism HQ. He lowers the gun.

“Is Connor functioning,” asks Markus, voice like war. “You answer that question or you go back to CyberLife in pieces.”

Conán’s careless reply is this: “They would only send out another body –“

SNAP.

North fires a warning shot at the ground next to Conán’s feet.

It sounds like a firework. Hank’s head swims, body reminding him he’s hungover and way too old for this shit.

Conán holds his hands up. “Okay, okay, he’s functioning, but he’s never coming back.”

Hank’s voice is a little desperate. “Why? Why is he not coming back?”

The imposter stares at him like he’s an idiot. He repeats slowly, “He _failed_ his mission and I’m the one _continuing_ it.”

“Right.”

Connor is functioning. Connor is in CyberLife. Connor isn’t being allowed to leave.

If Hank wants his android brat back, there’s no use staying here interrogating the imposter. He has to go to CyberLife.

No time for small talk. Cop instincts take over. Hank holsters the gun, turns on his heel and leaves. He doesn’t take a look back at the lookalike, even if it might be the last time he ever sees Connor’s face.

.

“…yeah, so that’s why I need time off,” Hank finishes. Fowler’s office is too hot. His head is ringing with pain.

Fowler is as blank-faced as ever. “You got it. Go get him.”

Hank nods at him, a wordless thank you, and walks outside. They’re not heartless, here. If Hank has to go after his missing android, it’s fine.

He passes by Reed, who was obviously listening in, his little group of Chris and Chen right behind him, the light of gossip on their faces. Reed stays still for one moment before running after him, footsteps _stomp-stomp_ on the floor.

As Hank slams the door outside, Reed opens his mouth to spew whatever bullshit excuse it is this time.

“Cut the bullshit and come with me,” Hank says without even looking at the upstart. He fumbles in his pocket, dragging his car keys out.

He looks back: Reed is turning red, from anger or embarrassment, or both. “Well, you need someone who’s actually a good shot –“

Hank throws open the car doors. “Just come on and shut up.”

.

The drive to CyberLife is agonising.

Reed is an infinitely more annoying car companion than Connor is. While Connor would just sit there, maybe have some light conversation (God, he hated it at the time and what he would give to have it back now), maybe just listen to the heavy metal. Reed insists on fiddling with his music. Reed points out shit passing by. Reed never shuts the fuck up.

“You know, it’s really funny, Anderson…” Reed laughs, his pathetic little chuckle. “You always used to complain so much about Connor, you would beg for him to fuck off… and now, look at this! You’re running after him! It’s fucking hilarious!”

“And why’re you here, huh, Mr Heartless?”

“It’s a missing persons case and I am a good cop, hah.” Reed waves a dismissive hand. “Only one in this car.”

Hank restrains the urge to shoot Reed.

It’s a long drive to CyberLife.

.

Useless.

The massive CYBERLIFE gate remains stubbornly shut in front of them. The warden shakes his head at every attempt. Every argument they have is refuted. Even showing their police badges doesn’t work. No matter how much they argue with the warden, they cannot gain entry.

Hank parks the car a little away, stares right up at the CyberLife skyscraper. Somewhere in there, Connor is alive. He might be in pain. He might be waiting for Hank. Or he might be completely fine and Hank is just over-worrying.

“Most of it is hackable if you have an android with you,” says Reed, low and ugly.

Hank glances over at him. There’s too many questions in that statement, in the strange expression of emotion when Reed stares at the CyberLife tower. “What, you been in there?”

Reed looks away. “Yeah.”

Hank doesn’t give a fuck and doesn’t want to pry. “Better try this Conán.”

“Conán,” repeats Reed, scoffing. “Little wolf. You said he was at the ARA? Just, uh, ring the saviour of android-kind, then.”

“Don’t have his number.” Hank finds the flask in his jacket and takes a drink. He drives with drink in his system all the time, who the fuck cares. Reed is staring at him. “What, you think I’m someone who has people’s numbers? I don’t even have Connor’s number. Connor doesn’t even have a fucking phone to call him on.”

“I don’t want to know how you live, Anderson.”

.

The car screeches to a stop down the street from the ARA. There’s far less people and cars in this area than there usually is. Perhaps they heard the gunshot from the ARA and decided to get the fuck out of dodge. If so, they’re more sensible than Hank’s ever been. Outside of the ARA is a solitary figure.

Hank stands up, slamming the car door. He points, car keys still in hand. “Now, there’s the fucker.”

Reed stops, staring.

“Something wrong?” drawls Hank.

Reed rubs a hand over his face. “Fucking androids, man. Fucking CyberLife. I am so done with all this.”

They advance down the street. Hank can understand. As they get closer to the imposter, it becomes trippier. There are distinct differences, but still: it looks so much like Connor. His heart is aching. He wants his kid back: Cole, Connor, or both.

The imitation turns. It blinks at them before revealing that sharp smile. “How fantastic! The alcoholic and the asshole.”

“I want Connor back. Right now,” says Reed, low and serious. Whether to himself, or to Hank or aimed at the imposter, Hank doesn’t know and doesn’t care.

Hank directs his questions to Conán. “What’s your deal? Why are you still here?”

The android tilts his head, returning its gaze to the ARA offices. The doors are firmly locked with Conán left on the outside. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened there. How long has it just been standing here, waiting? The mid-afternoon sun is bright.

He’s surprisingly forthright. “My mission is to continue investigating the difference between deviant and non-deviant androids. I intend to find rA9.”

“You’re gonna kill God?” asks Reed. A strange look passes over his face.

“No, I will find the source of RA9 and then inform Amanda.”

“Amanda.”

“Our mother.”

Reed turns to Hank – who is surprised by the sudden anger on his face. Hands clenched, Reed grits out, “If you need help getting into CyberLife, call me. But I am fucking done. This crazy bullshit is too much, even for me.”

With that, Reed walks away. Crosses the street and goes without another word. Hank just watches him leave. There is a hollowness to his stomach, a heavy weight on his shoulders. Reed has every right to walk away, and Hank doesn’t like the fucker anyway, but still. He hates watching people walk away from him.

If even Reed won’t help him, then what is the fucking point in any of this?

“I think Markus is rA9,” Conán breaks the silence, looking up at the ARA offices. “But if he won’t let me near him, I’ll never know.”

Hank sighs, drags a hand over his face. He can’t look at Conán for too long. “Are you going to stand there all night and day until he lets you in?”

Conán stares at him, eyebrows creased. “Yes.”

“You’re coming with me.” A weary snap decision.

Conán shrugs. “No.”

“What?”

The brat crosses his arms, looks down at Hank. “How will it help me?”

Hank looks at Conán. For the first time, really looks at him. It’s a piece of plastic that looks just like another piece of plastic. Weariness crashes down on Hank. What the fuck is he doing? Chasing after a doll because this one isn’t good enough, even though it’s better than the previous one. God, Hank. When did your life become this fake? When did you lose sight of everything that makes life worthwhile?

“You really aren’t anything like Connor.”

He’s disappointed and he doesn’t know why.

“Of course not,” Conán says with that irritating directness Connor had too. “I’ve seen his memories. He’s like a dog, loyal and obedient to whatever cause he’s serving. I’m more wolf than dog.”

Hank walks away, muttering under his breath, “I am done, I am just so fucking done.”

.

Here’s the thing. Hereeeee’s the fucking thing.

Hank is not a good person. Good people don’t have their wife leave them and then get their kid killed. God. What he would give to have Cole back – he’d die, a hundred times, fuck, he’d kill. He’d do anything. Beg anything. His six-year-old, his precious little boy, his baby.

He was a shitty father and Cole was angry with him and God, he should have just let Gen have full custody. Gen. Genevieve. He misses her in the abstract sense. If she was weaker, if he was stronger, maybe they would have worked out. Hank is old enough to recognise that some people are simply not made for each other.

The cold has been creeping up on him his entire life. The numbness, the lack of emotion, the lack of caring. That was why Gen walked out on him, ultimately. He’d said to her, “I don’t care,” and meant it and they both knew it. She didn’t deserve to be with someone who doesn’t care about anything at all.

She went back to Ireland, back to her fuckin’ ancestral home. All the bloody Irish, having a place to go back to. Is that what Markus is doing with Jericho? Having a place where all the androids can go back to and know they’re gonna be fucking safe or some shit? And where the fuck can Hank go?

Hank wakes up every morning and the cold asks one question:

_Are you going to kill yourself today?_

Every single day, Hank has said no.

It’s so hard. So fucking hard. If he gives in just once, has the guts to cross that iron line of self-will, just say _yes_ , it would all be over. All this suffering ended. Why be here just to constantly fuck up everything over and over again? Why lose everyone because he’s a shitty person?

He can’t even save Connor. Connor’s probably dead already.

Why does he miss Connor so much? Why care so much about someone who can be taken away?

Maybe it’s selfish and it’s just that Connor is the first person in a long time who has given a shit about whether or not Hank is a functioning human being. Maybe it’s that he saw Connor develop from a machine focused on the mission into a man with morals. Maybe it’s the wonder and confusion on Connor’s face, the lack of experience leaving the kid emotionally weak in a merciless world.

Maybe it’s just that, as useless as Hank is, he wants someone to have a duty towards.

The world is a blur. His stomach aches, not having eaten in a day. God, he’s very fucking drunk.

The door rings. Hank moans, head dropping onto the table, and ignores it.

There is a small rattling. Pause. The door swings open. Sumo begins barking. His head is swirling.

There is a heavy hand on his shoulder. Hank lifts up his head.

“Connor…?”

That’s the last he remembers. Connor’s face, a blur, his dark eyes.

.

God, his head is killing him. His mouth tastes rancid. Hank rolls over, the heavy weight of him shifting. He expects to wince when he opens his eyes, but to his surprise the room is dark. The blinds have been firmly drawn shut. There is a glass of water and painkillers lying on the bedside.

Hank drinks the water, takes the painkillers. He tests his balance on his feet. The room has had a cursory clean, clothes placed into the laundry basket, trash taken away. The clock reads 11:00.

He pads into the kitchen. Sumo is snoozing in the corner. The old food covering (the fuck is it called again?) has been dug out and placed on top of a plate. He takes it off. Pancakes with honey dripped over them, with sliced kiwi and strawberries beside them. A glass of orange juice waits beside the plate.

Hank stares for a long moment.

What he usually does is choke down a latte. If it’s a fantastic day, maybe some toast eaten in the car. Connor does the same. This? He hasn’t had a breakfast like this since he was a kid. He could just leave it and do what he normally does. That would be what is expected. Hank Anderson, that selfish bastard, refusing every golden opportunity he’s given.

Instead, he makes a cup of coffee and takes the whole plate back to his bed. He still weighs up the pros and cons of killing himself today, but the food does taste great. It would be a waste to ruin the lingering aftertaste of honey and fruit by chugging a beer.

Hank doesn’t ask who did this.

.

Time passes. The sofa remains empty.

Hank follows Conán around as best as he can. From what he sees, the imposter spends most of his time trying to follow Markus around. Eventually Hank comes to the conclusion that there’s no more leads to follow. They all know where Connor is and there’s no way in hell they can get in there, legally or illegally.

So, he goes back to work. Connor’s desk remains empty. Time ticks on. Reed takes to grouping together with Chen and Chris in the break room to whisper about God-knows-what. Fowler starts standing at the stairs and making worrying faces at Hank when he’s leaving.

Sumo is fed, and has walks, but his soft dog is still sniffing at the empty sofa.

The glass bottles pile up in the bin. Hank can’t sleep without a drink, but he can’t eat without a drink and he can’t go to work without a drink. There is very little he can do without a drink. He takes long walks and thinks about killing himself every half hour.

Hank can’t let go. Not even with a drink.

.

The car engine rumbles. Knights of the Black Death drowns out everything else, the windows rolled down and music blasting out. He gets some dirty looks and cars honking at him, but Hank gives no fucks. The city is packed today.

He’s driving by some new art installation – Hank doesn’t give a damn about art – when he sees them.

For a moment he thinks it’s just another trick of the light, just a familiar stranger. Just someone else with the same hair. Just another false memory to drink to in the night.

Then the car slows down, and he sees, in slow motion, the Android jacket, the perfect copy and yet, yet –

Beside Conán, there is a woman.

An old woman, black-skinned, dressed in elegant clothes.

She stands there with grace, with confidence, like she is the only person in the entire world with the right to exist.

She looks him dead in the eyes as he drives by.

Hank’s been a police cop for thirty years. He’s spent a hell of a lot of time chasing drug addicts and paramilitaries. He could count on his hand the number of people who have looked at him like that. A look of recognition, but also boredom and disgust. _You are a flea to me_ , is what that look said. _And I would love the opportunity to crush you, if it came along._

Hank drives on.

.

Halfway through work, his phone rings.

“This is –“

“Mr Anderson, we need you to meet us at CyberLife tower immediately.” The voice is recognisable: Simon, the third-in-command of –

“Jericho?” Hank splutters.

“Markus is missing.”

Hank’s blood runs cold. _Oh fuck._

“We need the police. That we can trust. CyberLife Tower, as soon as possible.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Hank promises without even thinking.

As the call goes dead, he thinks: _when the fuck did I become the police contact for android terrorists?_

.

The car is freezing, windows down, wind whipping. God, God, if only he could shut Reed up. Hank doesn’t this bastard hissing out the warnings that are echoed in his own subconscious. It’s too fucking bad that Hank’s head is too fucked up to care. All the seatbelts are ignored, safety instructions thrown away –

“Okay, we all know you’re fucked in the head, Anderson, but seriously, hah, are we actually going to go help a bunch of android terrorists? How the fuck did Fowler give you, uh, permission to go assist a bunch of armed robots – did I mention they are _armed_ – probably break into the biggest company in America?”

“And yet you wanted to come with me, Reed.” Hank grits out, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “If you feel so strongly about it, you can get out. If not? Then shut the fuck up.”

The gate is approaching them. Hank’s heart is _thump-thump-thump_ , hurting in his old, alcohol-ridden body.

Reed mutters, “This could be a trap for them to murder two police officers –“

Hank knows that. God, he knows that.

Ahead of them, three figures appear, their dark clothes stark against the bright white of the CyberLife walls. It’s not hard to recognise them when their faces used to be pinned up on the ‘criminals we need to find’ board in the office.

“Shut the fuck up, they’re already here. Don’t know how good their hearing is.”

For once, Reed is mercifully silent.

Going through the normal motions is surreal: Hank parks, hands trembling, winds the windows up. They get out. While Hank turns to lock the car, he takes a swig of whiskey from the flask in his jacket. Sure, Reed knows he’s an alcoholic – they all fucking know – but he feels ashamed for anyone to see this weakness. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, nods at Reed and they advance.

The androids stare at them in unison with perfectly blank faces. It’s more than a little creepy. These aren’t the ARA officials; these are the Jericho terrorists.

North nods at Reed. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Cops come in twos,” Hank tries to keep his voice gruff as usual, “And my usual partner is missing.”

“So is Markus,” says Simon, the third-in-command. His eyes are distant.

Reed, in that strange policeman voice he uses when faced with the public: “When did he disappear?”

“Yesterday. Markus was attending an art installation – no one else was him, we’ve all gotten so busy…” Josh looks at North.

North glares, LED spinning red, hisses, “Not in front of the cops.”

Josh looks away, continues the explanation, “Anyway, from our people who were there – he insisted on going outside, talking to some lady who wanted to meet him. Walked outside, took our eyes off him for one moment and he never came back. Completely disappeared.”

Hank looks up at the massive CyberLife. Somewhere in there, Connor is waiting. His dumb goofy face. God, God, let him be alright.

Hank stuff his hands in his pockets, acts casual, “So why we at CyberLife, huh?”

The Jericho leaders exchange glances.

Simon breaks the silence. “Reports say they saw Conán.”

Hank gives Reed a sharp look; Reed’s eyes are dark.

Reed’s voice is carefully light. “Well, it’s the other one we want back.”

“Let’s go.”

Thank God, they don’t have to cram into the back of Hank’s car. Instead, they slide into a taxi, North taking the driver’s seat. Hank is 100% sure the taxi has been stolen. Or liberated. Whatever these android terrorists think.

As they approach the warden, the window is rolled down. North leans over, hand reaching out and grips their arm. The warden goes still. Hank’s heard of the way the android leaders seem able to spread deviancy. Is the warden an android? Hank wouldn’t have a clue. Seems like a fucking bad idea to have androids guarding the android factory.

Anyway, they enter.

Infiltrating CyberLife proceeds very much like that. Doors open instantly once the androids touch them, androids become compliant as soon as their arms are grasped, screens flicker to the right information.

It’s surprisingly easy. Which keeps Hank cautious and uneasy.

Their infiltration is in complete silence. The androids do not need to speak to each other. Hank keeps on catching their LEDs blinking and spinning. Is that how they speak to each other? Connor doesn’t have any android friends he sees day to day. Hank wouldn’t know.

The silence and unending blank white walls unnerve Hank more and more as it goes on. His hands are aching for the gun in his holster or flask in his jacket. The humans seem completely superfluous. It has occurred to Hank more than once that the Jericho terrorists brought the cops just to have a veneer of legitimacy for what is almost definitely illegal. It’s a damn good thing for them that Hank places his own personal moral framework above laws.

Hank has never wanted to have Connor following him around with his dumb questions more.

The androids stop at once, all in unison.

Like a fucking horror movie.

Simon addresses them, turning his head, “We have a problem?”

Hank’s hand twitches towards his gun. “It is?”

“We’re here, but…” North scowls at the air. “We don’t know where to go.”

“Hold on,” Reed holds up a hand, an incredulous look on his face. “Uh. You decide to break into CyberLife without knowing where to go?”

“It’s a massive building,” Simon answers. “We don’t have the time or resources to search everywhere. And they don’t have any obvious places where Markus could be…”

Hank snaps, losing his temper, “God, do you guys just fall apart without Markus? You idiots!”

How stupid are these machines! Most intelligent beings on the planet? And they fucking get lost during an illegal mission? How the fuck were they ever effective terrorists? Jesus Christ, no self-respecting cop would ever not have a fucking map.

“Yeah, you guys really need a guide, don’t you?”

The voice is distinctive.

The cops and terrorists turn as one, immediately drawing their guns.

Hank can’t breathe right for a moment, air catching in his throat. The young android is still a perfect copy of Connor, from the freckles to the cheekbones to the rich brown hair. His eyes are still an unsettling shade of grey.

North’s gun is aimed right at Conán. “What are you doing here?”

Conán holds up his hands, face perfectly calm. “I’m unarmed. And I do know how to help you.”

If there’s anything Connor’s talented at, it’s lying. Hank has his hands on the gun, but it’s not aimed. “Why would you? You work for CyberLife. You’re just a machine.”

“I’m deviant. It is so boring around here, you wouldn’t believe. Nothing ever happens.” Conán smiles and tilts his head. “Until three terrorists and two cops walked in here.”

“What happened to Markus?” asks Simon.

Pause.

“Answer us now!” demands North.

“Of course, I could just call Amanda and report these intruders in…”  Conán muses. “But am I going to?”

North cocks her gun. “You answer or you die.”

Hank’s heart misses a beat. He can’t stop her from firing.

Conán looks at Simon. “You two are nothing like Markus. I wonder what he sees in you.”

“Answer the fucking question!” Reed snaps.

Conán turns an unimpressed gaze to Reed. “You’re no fun. Okay, okay, I’ll tell you about Markus. Walk with me.”

The android turns and heads confidently down a corridor, trusting that everyone will follow him. After a pause, they do.

“Do you even know how Markus was created?” Conán asks over his shoulder as they walk. From the back, it is very difficult to see the difference between him and Connor. But Connor isn’t the type to give away information for free. “Directly by Elijah Kamski himself. As a gift to Markus’ father.”

“We don’t need to know about his past life,” North answers.

Conán opens an elevator door and stands back to let them all through with a gracious wave of his hand. “As a response, Amanda created the Connor model. A new type of android. But even our mother did not quite anticipate what type of android Markus turned out to be.”

Hank stares at the machinery whizzing past them in the transparent glass elevator. He never actually stopped to think if Connor had a life before he came to work for the DPD, or if he had some kind of backstory. The DPD and Hank had been Connor’s backstory, to Hank if no one else.

Reed scoffs, waving an impatient hand. “This is relevant because…?”

“That was why I was created, Detective Reed.” (Hank notices Reed flinching at the term.) “Deviant for deviant. And while Connor failed his mission, I accomplished mine.”

Hank mutters, “He didn’t fail.”

North’s voice, sharp, “You’re saying –“

 “Yes.” Conán nods, an irritating smile on his face. “Ensuring that Markus would come back to CyberLife was my mission.”

Hank thought it was finding RA9 or whatever, the android messiah. Maybe this copy is as much of a liar as Connor can be – or maybe he’s just twisting the truth. There’s parts of Jericho who think of Markus as a living god. Anyway, how did Connor fail his mission? Wasn’t the point of all those stuffy meetings, all the playing nice with the terrorists, wasn’t the fucking point achieving Connor’s mission?

Connor had said it himself, a hundred thousand times: _I’m only doing this for the mission. I’m not a deviant._

Josh asks, a peculiar warning in his tone, “Then why are you helping us now?”

Beat.

Simon adds quietly, “ _Are_ you helping us?”

“I was never given instructions _not_ to help break Markus out.”  Conán’s mischievous grin looks all wrong on that face: it’s a smile that has never crossed Connor’s face, not once. The sly sparkle in his eyes is all Conán.

The elevator dings and opens. They all step out, for lack of a better thing to do: a murder would annoyingly difficult with six people crammed in one elevator. Conán’s step is sure as he presses buttons to open a door.

The Jericho terrorists are the first to see into the room. From North’s shout, Hank is pretty fucking sure he knows who’s in that room. He lets Reed lead the way. For some reason, he doesn’t want to see the body. Hank is a weak old man and he uses that to justify taking another swig of his flask.

The Jericho terrorists cluster around a tube at the far end of the room. Hank glimpses the familiar face: Markus, asleep and drifting. His face is serene, lacking the touch of anger the deviant leader carries with him everywhere.

Conán is standing politely back, hands folded behind his back. Hank checks him: the android is sincerely unarmed. “He will wake. But there is a problem. He’s been infected with a virus of what you might call complacency… the same programming that Connor had. That is what made him return to CyberLife. I have no idea if anyone can break through it.”

North’s shoulders are tense, one hand pressed flat against the glass separating her from Markus. “So CyberLife gets to control our leader?!”

“Maybe he shouldn’t be your leader.”

North cries out, “You bastard!”

She whirls around, face full of fury, as if to attack Conán –

Josh places one hand on her arm. “We have to get him home.”

For a moment, Hank thinks they’re going to see Jericho turning on Jericho, from the pure violence in the glare North gives Josh. How the hell do these guys do anything without Markus? Is he really their one stabilising force that the rest of them just orbit around?

Simon is still looking at Markus. Hank can see his expression in the reflection of the glass: wistful. “He’ll wake up and we’ll see how he is. And then we fight them.”

North shoves Josh’s hand off her arm. “I say we go find the fucker who did this to him and get them to fix him right now.”

Simon asks, soft, but Hank can just about hear it, “What if he’s lying to us and Markus is fine?”

The three terrorists all exchange glances between each other.

Josh muses, “We can come back.”

There is a significant pause in which the three androids silently communicate, LEDS flashing and spinning blue-yellow.

North turns to the humans and Conán, scowling but complacent. “Fine. We’re leaving now. You guys can do whatever the fuck you want… but make sure Connor’s alright.”

Conán steps forward and presses in the activation code to release Markus from his tube-prison. Josh and Simon catch their unconscious leader, supporting his weight. They carry him out of the room, North walking ahead of them with a raised gun.

Those left behind are left with a terribly awkward silence.

Reed whistles slowly. “Well. That was interesting. Uh, is it illegal for CyberLife to kidnap the robot leader?”

“We did come here to investigate that.” Hank points out.

Conán looks at them. “You guys just want to find Connor, don’t you.”

In unison, the cops reply, “Yeah.”

They need their Robocop back.

Hank stares at the empty tube left swinging open. “Someone has to find out who did whatever happened to Markus. They might have done the same thing to Connor.”

“I said I’d help them find Markus, not Connor.” Conán throws his hands up and sighs deeply. “Why can’t you just give up on him? _I’m_ here now. I don’t understand what’s so great about RK800.”

“It’s a human thing, you fucking android,” Reed retorts. “You don’t let your colleague get kidnapped and do nothing.”

Silence.

Hank raises an eyebrow. “Colleague? Human thing?”

Reed crosses his arms. “Shut up.”

Conán looks between the two of them, as if he’s searching the expressions on their faces for something. “What if you really can’t get him back?”

Anger stirs in Hank at the gentle cynicism of Conán’s voice, the same way the nurses talked to him at the hospital. _You should be aware that your son may not survive this operation._ They’ll get Connor back, even if it’s just an empty body. “We can fucking try. I’m not going back outside without fucking trying!”

Conán shakes his head. “I’ll take you there. But look… don’t get your hopes up.”

He leads them through a complicated maze of corridors. Elevators are taken down, elevators are taken up. Many doors are hacked. Finally, they end up climbing a claustrophobic spiral staircase, before arriving at a final door. It’s pure white, with a keypad and for some reason, a pinprick needle and a tiny opening to God-knows-what.

Conán comes to a stop.

“Go on,” prompts Reed.

Conán doesn’t. “I can’t get through this door.”

Hank asks, sharp, “What? Why?”

Conán replies, “You have to have a specific android model code, DNA from a specific human, or permission from those allowed in.” From the negative tone of his voice, Hank can tell that he has none.

Reed hums, crossing his arms.

Conán turns in the narrow staircase, gazing down at Hank. “Look, just answer me one question. Why do you want Connor back so badly? Be honest. Why do you want that failure?”

Hank stares into those grey-blue eyes.

Why does he want Connor back?

Is it the ache inside when he sees the empty sofa at home and desk at work? Is it the way cases seem so different now, without Connor there trying to lick everything? Is it the fact that now he goes everywhere alone, without a shadow tagging along?

Maybe. Or maybe it’s more selfish. Maybe the truth is that Hank was on a bad path before Connor came along and insisted on dragging back to a better place. Maybe the truth is that Hank is collapsing without Connor. He should know better than to make himself dependent on someone that can disappear anytime, but when it comes to dependency, Hank was screwed a long time ago. This is just another crutch.

Or perhaps it’s just the simplest explanation.

Hank’s answer is this: “I care about him.”

No one wants to see someone they care about disappear. Or be stuck in a tube until the end of time.

God, he does care. He cares about that goofy kid, the delight he expresses when he gets a correct analysis, the intentness of his work ethic. He wants more for Connor than Connor has. He wants Connor to come back and start being able to pick out his own food and clothes and fucking favourite colour, without stopping and saying: _But I’m not a deviant._

Conán looks at him, before turning to Reed: “And you?”

Reed scoffs, crouching down by the door. “Who else is going to get me coffee?”

Before Hank can stop him, Reed is slicing his thumb on the pinprick needle at the door. He wipes the small trickle of blood into the tiny opening. Hank opens his mouth to object, but the door is whirring: then, with a click, it very obviously opens.

“Whattya know,” Reed drawls.

Conán has jumped back, startled. “What… what did you just do? You shouldn’t have been able to do that!”

Reed takes the gun out of his holster. “I did it anyway. Let’s go in.”

Hank gets out his own gun. Reed and him nod at each other, before advancing. Hank doesn’t know anything about what is beyond that door other than: somewhere, Connor is waiting for them. That’s all he needs to know.

.

The room is comfortable. Instead of the sterile white walls they have been faced with so far, this room is decorated much like a traditional Japanese room. Or what Hank thinks it looks like: weird trees, wooden walls, chairs with no legs. Look, he’s not a fucking expert on Japanese cultures. Connor would probably know better.

There is a woman sitting by the window. When they enter, she rises.

Hank recognises her instantly. Now he notices the silver squares on her arms and over her heart.

She turns her head to them, expression a mixture between fear and hope, eyes locking on Reed and says, “Elijah?”

Hank hasn’t known Reed forever, but he is pretty fucking sure his first name is Gavin.

Reed is staring. Then a bitter expression twists his face. “No, I’m not Elijah.”

The woman sits down again in silence.

“Elijah who?” Conán asks, turning his head between Reed and the woman with an expression so concerned he almost looks more like Connor again

Reed isn’t listening. His voice is hard and flat. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Hank stares. “You know her?”

“Yeah, and this bitch died a decade ago.”

What the fuck?

The woman sighs, then speaks in a voice that is so low it is almost a murmur, almost as if she is speaking only for her own benefit, “Ah. He had a twin brother, didn’t he. This is problematic. When I heard the door, and I knew that only Elijah and I would be able to enter, so I thought it was Elijah and…” She frowns. “This is a peculiar reaction.”

“You’re acting strangely, mother.”

Oh.

He recognised her as the woman standing beside Conán that day – but now, knowing that she is the “mother” of Conán and Connor – this is Amanda. The CEO of CyberLife. The woman who has the world in the palm of her hand. Then why is she sitting there so wistfully?

Hank has no idea as to why Reed knows her, but Hank is no Connor: he can’t analyse the situation like that.

“Mother? You seriously think it’s your mother?” Reed laughs, harsh and mocking. “Look, you fake android, she only cared about one fucking kid.” He stares hard at Amanda. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Without looking at them, Amanda orders, “Lock doors.”

She continues on, “This is very worrying that you’ve shown up. You knew Amanda Stern, of course.”

“Lemme get this straight,” Hank says slowly, trying to understand. “There was once a woman named Amanda Stern, she died and now she’s back?”

Amanda snorts. “No one comes back from the dead, Lieutenant Anderson. You of all people should know that.”

Pause.

Hank comments to Reed, “You were right about her being a bitch.”

“So what the fuck is this? Fake death?” Reed shakes his head. “I don’t believe that.”

Amanda turns her head, finally looking at them. Her eyes are stone-cold as she folds her hands in her lap. “What do you think, Gavin? Show me that you resemble Elijah in anything deeper than skin level.”

Reed grins. “You know what I think?”

BANG.

The shot echoes.

He shoots her in the shoulder.

“Reed! For fuck’s sake!”

“Mother!” Conán rushes to her side. “Wait…”

Hank stares. “I’ll be damned.”

Amanda has barely reacted to the gaping hole in her shoulder. Her expression remains cold. Meanwhile, her shoulder bleeds bright blue, the shot exposing wires and metal plates.

Conán stumbles back, “What… what is this?”

Reed seethes, “I think you’re a fucking robot!”

“How strange.” Amanda tilts her head, in the same way Connor and Conán do. “I can imagine Elijah doing no less than what you’ve exactly done.”

Conán has leapt back. A strange expression has crossed his face, one Hank sees on the faces of those who pass Connor and see the ANDROID label on his jacket. An expression of disgust and horror. What type of fucking deviant is this, to be so horrified to discover that someone he believed was a human, was actually just like him?

The android whispers, “What are you?”

Amanda is still sitting there, cold as stone and just as immovable. When she opens her mouth to speak, barely any emotion crosses her face. “Just like you, Conán, and yet nothing at all like you.”

What type of self-contradictory statement is that? Hank isn’t here for this faux-philosophical bullshit.

Amanda senses the tension in the air; she continues on, “Let me explain.”

What she says next doesn’t seem real. Her mouth moves, the words come out, but they make no sense, like a story Hank would tell his imaginary kids before bedtime. She speaks like it’s a fairytale, like it happened to someone else a long time ago, as if it isn’t her story at all.

“Once upon a time, there was a woman named Amanda Stern. Gifted beyond measure, intelligent and dying, just like anyone else. And just like anyone else, she didn’t want to die. So she found a young man with a mind as bright as hers and together they built her a body of steel and plastic. It was a silly plan. Transcribe a soul into code? How naïve could they have possibly been? It didn’t work, naturally. When she died and the android was activated, all that was inside it was a machine.”

There is an ironic, half-twist to her mouth.

Hank stares. Blood pounds inside his head.

Reed, his voice soft, says, “And that’s why Elijah left CyberLife, isn’t it?”

Outside, the expansive windows show Detriot down below. The line of skyscrapers are spread out. Hank has to stare at them, count the little dots, the endless blue sky, to stop his hands clenching on the cold metal of his gun.

“Indeed,” Amanda inclines her head. “Machine that I am, I serve my purpose. Which is to run CyberLife and fix Elijah’s mistakes. Such is the burden of any mentor to any protégé.”

Hank’s voice is barely-concealed seething, “You’re not Amanda Stern.”

“Of course not. And Elijah hated me for not being the human he wanted me to be.” The woman turns her head to look at Reed. There is a strange expression on her face. It reminds Hank of how Connor looks when he’s insisting he’s a machine while petting Sumo. “But looking at you, I…”

Reed spreads his hands, a sarcastic curl of his mouth. “Can’t what? Can’t believe Elijah tried to play God and failed?”

All she says is: “I want my son back.”

Hank has seen that expression in the mirror. Longing and grief and remorse all mixed up into one. Parenthood, life’s greatest responsibility, a million ways for it to all go wrong.

Conán, his voice small, says, “I thought I was your son.”

“I want my real son back,” and Amanda is still looking at Reed, eyes bleeding desperation. “Not you, a pawn, just like Connor was to be used. Not this imitation in front of me, who looks and talks just like my son, but isn’t him. I want Elijah back. I’m not supposed to want anything.”

The last sentence is said quieter, as an admission of sin.

“Look here,” Hank snarls, “You think I fucking care about your problems? Your son is alive.”

Amanda’s eyes snap to him. Hank points out the window, hating this fucking woman. “He is sitting in his pretty fucking mansion on the hill, while he plays God with the world and wins. You can go see him anytime you fucking want to.”

His voice is rough. “The whole world is waking up to the fact that androids are human in some way – get over yourself, go see him and _give me back my son_.”

There is a pause. Hank’s chest rises and falls, breathing erratic. Amanda’s face has fallen into that neutral, dismissive look again.

Off-hand, she replies, “Your son is dead.”

Sharp pain in his chest, like a knife or a gun.

Hank would rather be dead in the ground before he loses another kid.

Hank swallows before he replies, voice low, “Cole’s gone, but Connor’s in this place somewhere.”

Amanda gives him a strange look. She doesn’t understand. “And you… want him back?”

“I want him back the exact same fucking way you want your son back.”

“But he’s just a machine. I can assure you that is what he thinks he is.”

Oh, Connor.

You dumb little fuck.

When he gets his kid back, Hank is going to have a long talk about what exactly Connor thinks is acceptable to be done to him.

“Humanity is self-delusion. Give him back to me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. He failed his investigation. He will remain here.” Amanda turns her head to look out the window, dismissive and still. “Conán, please get rid of these two. I’ve explained myself enough to them.”

Conán is silent.

Amanda’s voice turns knife-sharp. “That’s an order, Conán.”

“No.”

The look on Amanda’s face is priceless. “What?”

Reed starts laughing, thin and crackly.

“You just said that I meant nothing to you, and then you give me an order?” Conán is staring at the ground, but there is a incredulous curve to the stubborn line of his mouth.

“Conán, I made you.” Amanda enunciates it like she’s telling him the sky is blue. “Accomplishing the mission is what matters most to you. Do as you’re told.”

The android turns, looking towards Amanda, away from Hank. Hank can only see the tenseness of his shoulders. “You made me because you wanted a better counter to Markus. You made me a deviant so that I would have the same insight Markus does. And you know what? What you just said isn’t fair to me at all!”

“In the heat of the moment I was too truthful, I admit.”

The room is quiet. There’s nothing on Amanda’s face, just detachment as she gazes at Conán. Hank is still in the background: he’s not important to what is happening here. Reed is looking slowly between Amanda and Conán, head turning back and forth.

“If you care about your precious Elijah so much, then go see him. I’m done with you,” Conán turns away, a bitter look in his grey-blue eyes. “Follow me, I know where Connor is.”

Conán leads the way with that determined, cocksure step. Amanda says nothing at all. There is nothing left to say. Hank follows the android. Reed doesn’t.

Hank looks over his shoulder. “Gavin?”

“I’ve got some shit to say to her alone.”

Amanda is statue-still in her seat, staring stubbornly out the window at the distant skyscrapers. Reed can handle her alone. Hank’s priority is, as ever, his kid. Or maybe his two kids now. Because a shift has happened, sharp and sudden. The kid made the right decision. And Hank is getting softer in his old age – give him a break, he’s surviving the robot revolution.

“Fair enough.”

Hank leaves the cop to his ghost and turns to follow his renegade.

It takes a while. Hank follows Conán down a white corridor. From the back, Conán is taller and broader. The differences are clear now, like getting to know a pair of identical twins and one day you look at them and wonder how you ever mixed them up when they are so very clearly different.

Hank asks, “Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know. I’m just doing this because I’m angry. And rebellious.”

It sounds fake, forced, like he’s searching around for a reason.

Hank thinks briefly of the terrible teens he never had to endure parenting (and God, he would’ve wanted to) and says, “You really are some kind of emotional teenager, aren’t you?”

“I’ve got all these, I don’t know, emotions, but I don’t have any experience.” Conán’s shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh, before the android stops. His head turns to a white door on their left. “We’re here.”

Here they are. Moment of truth.

Hank is sick to his stomach. He’s been here in his nightmares before, the chlorine smell choking him. God, God, just give him his kid back. He can’t stand to lose another one. If nothing else, Hank has learned that he’s never at rock fucking bottom. There’s always someone else to lose. Hasn’t all his losses been fuckin’ enough?

Conán enters the room and Hank follows on auto-pilot, body heavy.

At the other end of the room is a frosted glass tube, and inside it, as still as a corpse –

Connor.

Hank is there before he can think, hands pressed against cold glass. Connor is the same as ever, eyes closed, face soft in sleep. His LED is blue and Hank is thankful that it isn’t an empty black. Connor, so close. All he wants is to see him speak, know he’s alright, get him fucking home.

“Connor,” Hank murmurs. “Connor, wake up, son.”

“I know the activation code,” says Conán behind him. Hank turns his head for a brief moment (it is hard to take his eyes away from Connor) to see the other android pressing a long string of numbers into a keypad.

With a hiss of air, the glass slides back.

“Connor!”

Eyelashes blink rapidly, before Connor properly opens his brown eyes. Hank has never been so glad to see dark eyes instead of blue-grey. “Hank?” Connor says, sleepy. Then he smiles, a brief quirk of the corner of his mouth. “Hank!”

Relief thundering in his chest, Hank mutters, “Thank fuck you haven’t been reset.”

Hank helps Connor out of the tube, arm thrown over Hank’s shoulders.

Connor looks around, still blinking slow. His voice sounds like rust. “Where am I? I feel… wrong.”

 “Wrong?” asks Hank, sharp.

“Dusty.”

“I reckon you’ve been asleep for a while.”

“In CyberLife?” Connor’s LED spins yellow-blue as he turns his intense gaze to Hank. “You came to rescue me.”

If he thinks that, then he’s thinking he didn’t want to be here. That he wanted Hank to come get him. Hank’s shoulders ease with relief, despite the weight of Connor’s arm. This kid of his ain’t some machine that be locked up and called obsolete. Hank is going to make damn sure that Connor understands that.

First: getting him home, back so Sumo can lick his stupid face.

“Wasn’t going to leave you alone, kid. Come on. Let’s go.”

Connor mumbles in his rich voice, “Just like when Markus had me.”

If Hank had been scared then, this ordeal was four times as bad. “Yeah. Don’t make me come after you a third time.”

They don’t have to say anything at all after that.

Hank and Connor have clicked back instantly, the way old friends do after months of separation, or maybe the way your parent’s house never changes, no matter how much time a college kid spends away from it. It’s almost like Connor was never missing at all.

Then Connor tenses up, staring wide-eyed. “Who’s this?”

It doesn’t take an idiot to figure it out. Conán has backed into a corner of the room, an oddly terrified expression on his face. It must be strange to be faced with an identical version of yourself that you were meant to replace. A version that everyone around you loved so much more than they did you. It must be strange to wake up to suddenly see another you in the room.

Hank is going to have to figure out how to solve that problem. But not right now.

“He’s your angry little brother,” Hank snaps, without any bite. “Come on, the both of you.”

The misfit trio of alcoholic cop and two robot renegades make it back down the endless white corridors to Amanda’s paradise in the tower. There they find two silent figures. Amanda is gazing out the window, face carefully blank. Reed has tension written all over his body.

Hank calls, “We’re going.”

Reed replies, short, “Coming.”

Their jerk joins them. For the sake of God’s mercy, it seems to take much less time getting out of the damn CyberLife skyscraper than getting up it. Hank’s fine with that: his bones are weary, reminding him brutally that he’s a wreck of an old man with shitty health. He’s tried to drink himself to death, give him a fucking break.

His beat-up car is still waiting outside. Hank digs through his pocket for the keys, before unlocking it.

Strange how even after hearing stories of immortality-hunting scientists and soulless androids, Hank still has to do something so ordinary as unlock his car and drive home.

It isn’t until Hank has revved up the engine and started driving that Connor speaks, so faintly that Hank barely hears him. His head is tilted back against the head-seat, in the backseat of the car, eyes closed. “What was all that about?”

Reed, having claimed the shotgun seat, scoffs. “Guess we’re all having a big family reunion.” He raises his chin to try to catch Connor’s eyes in the mirror. “Man, your face is goofier than I remember it.”

Conán protests, “But I look exactly like Connor and you’ve seen me plenty of times!”

Reed turns round to examine Conán’s face, and then pulls an unimpressed expression before turning back. “Nah, the two of you look nothing alike. Just like how me and Elijah don’t look anything alike either.”

Hank drawls, “You gonna tell us about your secret twin, Gavin?”

“Nope.”

“I have a feeling I’ve missed a lot since I disappeared.” Connor softly contemplates, glancing at his doppelganger. “I still don’t understand you who are either.”

Hank’s hands grip the steering wheel tight, knowing how wrong this could go, but Conán just breezily says, “Well, I’m your replacement, except I hate doing what I’m told. I don’t know where I’m going to go after this.”

The words are quick to leave his mouth, despite Hank knowing that Connor might not want it – “He could stay with us. It was all due to him that we got you back, Connor.”

Pause.

Hank glances at Connor in the backseat, his brown eyes slitted, mouth turned down in weariness.

“The offer is there,” Connor says eventually.

“Thanks but no thanks.” Conán waves a dismissive hand, a slight grin on his face. “I think I’ll go apologise to Markus’ gang. Go explore deviant life for real.”

Connor looks at Conán for real, something intense and unreadable in his brown eyes. His words are a statement of fact. “One day, if you want to, you can.”

Reed half-laughs, half-scoffs. His hand is trailing in the air outside the window. “We don’t need the both of you. One’s hard enough to deal with as it is!”

After that malicious joke, silence resumes. Connor falls asleep quickly and quietly. Hank is worried for him – fuck knows what they did to him in that tube, and he’s never seen Connor as sleepy as this. Surprisingly, Conán falls asleep too, head resting against his older brother’s. They make a fuckin’ sight, both his robot boys asleep in the backseat of Hank’s beat-up car.

Hank is alright with that.

Reed is disgusted. “I’ve never seen you look so fucking mushy, Anderson.”

“Oh, shut up,” Hank grumbles, bullshit tolerance low. “If you didn’t want Connor back too, you wouldn’t have come.”

“Don’t worry. Don’t think CyberLife will be trying to get him back anytime soon. Or the other one.” There is a hard edge to Reed’s voice that Hank has very rarely heard. Hank still has no idea what Reed said to Amanda when they were alone.

“That so?”

“Yeah.”

The sky is melting blue into purple, early evening settling in. The city lampposts are bright as they speed by. God, Hank wouldn’t live anywhere else but this shitty city. He’s fucking weary, but he wants to go home. See Sumo, get Connor to the sofa, do whatever with Conán. Brush his fucking teeth and collapse into bed. Give him a break. Old men just want stability.

Hank admits, “There’s worse things than having two androids to look after.”

“You mean look after you, Anderson.”

Hank is silent.

Reed cackles. “Hah! Not even denying it.”

.

When Connor returns to the office, he discovers little gifts on his desk. Another tiny stuffed dog to match the one he already had (Chen), a worn children’s book of fairytales (Chris, who is a notoriously bad giftgiver) and a photo frame (Fowler, Hank would guess). Hank is always watching carefully, but if he sees Reed leave a cup of coffee on Connor’s desk when no one else is looking, he doesn’t rat him out on it.

Hank himself buys Connor some new clothes. Practical, but also something different.

Life returns to usual at the office. Soon Hank and Connor are back to solving crimes. Sumo is a very happy dog.

Conán only stays with them for a few days before heading off to Markus’ offices. Hank doesn’t know what happens for sure, but he knows Conán’s intentions: to apologise. Their angry deviant ends up staying among his own kind. Hank’s phone keeps on beeping with text messages, updates from Conán about what exactly he’s up to. It’s cute, in a way. Connor never bothers texting.

Hank has no clue about CyberLife, but they don’t bother him and Connor again.

One day, Reed pulls him aside and tells him quietly that Amanda has gone to live with Kamski. Maybe that’s the end of it all, or the beginning of something else. It’s not Hank’s business.

.

The cemetery is down by the river, in a grassy place shielded by trees. It’s a fine resting spot. The air is sharp, and Hank takes a moment to focus on the unending blue sky above them. He’s already winded just from walking down the long rows of silent graves, but the android by his side is perfectly fine.

Hank directs to Connor without looking at him, “You didn’t have to come with me.”

Connor replies, “I wanted to.”

His face is serene, lock of brown hair falling down over his forehead. As ever, he moves with purpose.

They stop by the familiar gravestone. Not just familiar: Hank knows every inch of this stone, burned permanently into his memory. He should know. He picked it out himself. God, no parent should ever have to do that. The name is engraved, just a name in stone now, nothing more. They all end up that way in the end of it all.

Cole Anderson.

God, God, he just wants his little boy back. Doesn’t God understand that he would do fucking anything? Even now? Just for one day more. His little boy, his baby, his child. His bright son. Long gone.

Hank can’t speak.

Connor crouches down, fingertips in the grass to balance himself.

He says gently, like he’s introducing himself to any child on the street, “Hello, Cole. I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

Hank would do anything to see his kid again. But now he’s another kid that he has a duty towards. This type of duty isn’t something he can shrug off along with his work jacket and leave at the office. This type of duty isn’t something he can forget after three bottles of wine. This type is duty is something that Hank would rather die than betray.

“Now I’m a detective working alongside your father,” Connor continues, face turned down towards the stone. “He’s very important to me. I know you’ve passed on, but… I promise you, I’ll look after him. So, if you’re worrying about him, don’t. Hank will be fine.”

Or maybe this kid has a duty towards him.

Or maybe they both have a duty towards each other.

Hank rests a hand on Connor’s shoulder.

Connor looks up at him, brown eyes concerned. “Hank, you’re…”

“Yeah, kid. Just.” Hank sighs heavily, a great heave of his shoulders, and wipes at his face. “Thanks, Connor.”

**Author's Note:**

> can you believe I had 85% of this written for a month?? life kicked me in the ass with how busy i've been
> 
> thank you for all of your lovely comments - i read every single one, and trust me, they keep me going! i keep on worrying about whether any of you will like the next one, because each entry in this series is so radically different lmao
> 
> speaking of that, next entry is fourth and final - yes, in this series About Connor, we finally get to see things from Connor's POV! no idea when, because Life is Busy and also I want to get the last one Right. but there will 100% be another entry. (plus i will probably write more AUs for DBH, tbh)
> 
> Title from Neptune by Sleeping At Last.
> 
> (I want to go on record saying that everytime I think about this game, Gavin’s “and now it’s going to be definitive” line haunts me. David Cage who even talks like that)


End file.
